


Like Sand Through an Hourglass

by fatedfeathers



Series: Sands of Time [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, M/M, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatedfeathers/pseuds/fatedfeathers
Summary: Peter, from the moment he saw Juno Steel, felt a strong urge to run his hands through the detective’s feathers.





	Like Sand Through an Hourglass

Peter, from the moment he saw Juno Steel, felt a strong urge to run his hands through the detective’s feathers. Not just because he was undeniably attractive; no, Juno’s wings were simply bedraggled and obviously ruffled. The feathers didn't look out-of-place enough to cause discomfort, but the look of them made him instinctively start to shift his own wings minutely in discomfort. They didn't, of course, he was too well-practiced at falling into different roles, and Rex Glass was a well-trained secret agent. A few misaligned feathers were nothing to him.

That didn't mean it didn't bother Peter to no end. Even as they stood, winded, in the hide space with the monster outside, Juno ignored the even greater number of misplaced feathers he had acquired in the run. Peter, on the other hand, spent their conversation carefully realigning his sleek black and white feathers, hoping Juno would take the hint and at least attempt to fix his wings, to no avail.

Juno Steel, Peter later learned, simply wasn't the kind of lady to be bothered keeping his wings perfectly aligned when they'd just become ruffled again soon. He groomed his wings enough so they weren't unnecessarily uncomfortable, but he didn't bother to fix a few mused shafts. After years of ignoring them outside of his molt or the few times he had to go to places with a fancier dress code, he barely noticed the displaced feathers unless they were at an angle that pulled uncomfortably at the skin.

Peter Nureyev, on the other hand, had vowed to always maintain proper wing health; after the nightmarish years it took with Mag to get his wings and feathers healthy again from living on the streets, he had always taken great pride in keeping his feathers glossy, well-kept, and in line. He always made sure to keep up some level of maintenance for his wings, no matter what the role he would be slipping into next required of him.

That was the difference between the two of them, Peter mused. He viewed feather upkeep an unskippable part of his routine. Even as they sat captive in the Martian tomb, he would run exhausted fingers through his wings and align any misplaced feathers, skipping unsteadily over the patches of missing feathers from where Miasma’s assistants were careless. He couldn't stand feeling his feathers out of place, the reminder of when he was on the streets in Brahma. Each empty patch of wing brought back another memory of a time when he had nothing, was nothing.

Juno, on the other hand, spent the time in the tomb trying to rest. He didn't sleep; he never dropped deep enough for sleep. He didn't groom himself, couldn't muster the energy to preen properly. Where he usually looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, feathers sticking up haphazardly, now he looked like he'd been dragged through a sandstorm. More of his feathers were out of place than aligned; patches of his right wing’s wrist were stained with blood from where his head had lolled to the side in unconsciousness; he had even more areas missing feathers than Peter did. And Peter assumed, like after a sudden sandstorm, the detective probably had seemingly endless grains of sand trapped under his feathers, chafing at his skin.

It was this last point Peter finally used to tempt Juno into letting him groom the detective's wings for him. He could see the raw spots forming on Juno’s dark wings, and wanted to keep them from getting worse. That's not exactly what he told Juno, of course, but what the detective didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

It had taken days for Peter to finally ask Juno to let him groom his wings. Days more for the detective to finally accept. Peter was finally about to run his hands through Juno's wings and straighten all his feathers the way he had wanted to from the moment they'd met.

He took his time making sure Juno was comfortable, or as comfortable as he could be in their current situation. The dried blood crusting his right wing joint was a lost cause, they didn't have enough water to clean it, but Peter wasn't worried about that. He wanted to align Juno's feathers, fluff the sand out of his down, smooth over the exposed skin where his feathers had been pulled or chafed away.

He finally had one of Juno's wings stretched across his lap, and was gently starting to card his long fingers through the feathers. They were rough-edged with neglect and sand, but they still ran through Peter's fingers like silk. He was only just starting to work through the feathers closest to Juno's shoulder blades when he heard Miasma’s assistants approaching.

He lost his window.

When they finally got back to the chamber, Juno had withdrawn back into himself. Peter wouldn't get his chance to run his hands Juno's feathers again. Not while they were still held by Miasma. Not with what Juno had seen in Peter's mind so fresh and raw. Not here. Not like this.

**Author's Note:**

> How do you end things lmao I have no clue
> 
> I hope you liked this? I've been working on a long, completely unrelated wing AU for this fandom, but this has been kicking around in my drafts for a month or so and I decided to finish it. ((Even though I should be finishing the dæmon AU... I promise it's not abandoned!))


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